Roses in December
by Pelageya
Summary: Haunted by her memories of the war, Hermione leaves the wizarding community behind and escapes into the muggle world. Ten years later she is forced to return to England and the life that she thought she had left behind for good. Eventual Harry/Hermione.
1. Chapter 1

_God gave us memory that we might have roses in December._

**Prologue **

Hermione sat stiffly on the little white cot that had been put up for her in Ginny's bedroom. The dim purple glow outside of the bedroom window told her that it was nearing five o'clock; the moon, partially obscured by the soft haze of the clouds, was sinking, and the sun was on its way.

Ginny had long since passed into the realm of sleep, her soft, even breathing filling the room and merging with the sound of Hermione's heartbeat: One breath in, two beats, one breath out, two beats, and so on, creating a gentle lullaby that spoke to the miracle of life.

Life. _Life goes on_, they told her; but wise words are little comfort to the living when they are forced to remember those they have lost.

For the hundredth time in the past five days (Five days since the end of the war, Hermione thought. Five days since Fred died, since Remus and Tonks passed away and left their little boy in the incapable hands of a seventeen-year-old), Hermione cursed the power of memory. She hated this silvery substance in her brain that forced her to relive what she did not want to relive, to see once more those things that she longed never to see again. Over and over she recalled the blank stare in Fred's eyes, the horrible stillness of Colin Creevey's body, and the silence where Tonks's heartbeat should have been—a silence that rang louder than any noise on earth.

Everyone said that it was important to remember. In all of Kingsley's speeches, broadcast daily over the recently reinstated wireless network, the new Minister of Magic asked his fellow witches and wizards to "remember those we have lost, in the hope that they will continue to live on in our memories." George, his voice shaky and his eyes oddly blank, had said just yesterday, "as long as I remember Fred, he'll be here beside me—just like he always was." Even Harry, his green eyes burning with determination, would often lean down over his infant godson and whisper, "I'll never forget your parents, Teddy. And when you're old enough, I'll tell you all about them. Every detail. I promise."

Everyone said that it was important to remember. Hermione alone wanted only to forget.

Hugging her knees to her chest, Hermione glanced out the window once more. She noted that the violet sky had acquired a pale rosy tint along the horizon; in another hour the sun would be up, and the Weasley household would begin to stir. If she was going to do this, she had to do it now.

Hermione's mind was perfectly blank as she rose to her feet, slipped on her sneakers and picked up her tiny beaded bag. Her muscles seemed to move of their own accord, functioning independently of her brain as she stepped lightly over the cot and walked to the door, treading softly on the tips of her toes. She watched disinterestedly as her hand, glowing pale in the moonlight, reached out to grasp the doorknob. The hand tilted toward the left, turning the knob, and then pulled. The door cracked open. Hermione watched as her body slipped through the crack, shut the door, and began to walk down the hallway towards the stairs. She followed its movements down the staircase—somehow it knew to skip the creaky bottom step—through the kitchen, and out the front door.

Hermione's consciousness did not fully return to her body until several days after her flight from the Burrow. By then she was far, far away from her old world and her old life, and she no longer felt the weighty responsibility of remembering all of those who had died. Free of all pressure and obligation, Hermione finally allowed herself to forget.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO**

A little over a week after Hermione's midnight departure, a strange owl flew in through the Weasleys' kitchen window. It bore in its beak an envelope with no return address. Harry, surrounded by the entire Weasley family, opened the envelope with trembling fingers; he had recognized the tidy hand in which the address—"To the Weasleys and Harry"—had been written.

There was no letter inside of the envelope; there were only the two jagged pieces of a stick that had been snapped in half.

"Is that—?" Ron said, his voice cracking before he could finish his question. Harry nodded, the expression on his face unreadable.

"It's her wand, mate," he said at last. "I'd recognize the design anywhere."

Harry stood still, staring down at the broken wand for nearly an hour. He blocked out the sounds of Ron's yells and Mrs. Weasley's anguished sobs. Images of Hermione flashed through his mind: Hermione with bushy hair and buck teeth, telling Ron that he had a spot on his nose; Hermione at the Yule Ball, dancing with Viktor Krum; Hermione in the Forest of Dean, dancing with him, Harry, to the quiet music on an old wireless.

"It's what she wants," he said at last, not looking up.

"What?" Ron said, turning to stare at him in disbelief.

"It's what she wants, Ron," Harry repeated, more firmly this time. "We have to let her do this. It's the only way she'll be happy."

**A/N: Please review if you'd like me to keep posting. Thanks! – Pelageya **


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One: Smile, Smile, Smile**

"Another dream?"

Hermione nodded, refusing to meet her husband's eyes. Jonathan King stood next to the bed, looking down at his wife of two years with a vaguely concerned expression on his kind face.

There had been a time, early in their marriage, when Jonathan had been deeply affected by Hermione's nightmares. The first few times she had woken up from a bad dream—her face red and drenched in tears and sweat, her usually tranquil eyes wild and unseeing—Jonathan had held her tightly to him, rocking her and murmuring sweet nothings in her ear. Occasionally—though they never mentioned it outside the bedroom—he had even cried with her, such was the depth of his empathy.

Now, however, after two years filled with such nightly disruptions, neither Jonathan nor Hermione paid much attention to the dreams. They had accepted them as a part of their life, something to be regarded in much the same way as a leaky faucet or a perpetually flickering light bulb—as a mild irritation not worth troubling over.

"Yes, but it wasn't too bad," Hermione replied at last, pushing the thick white comforter off of her body and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Don't worry about it, Jon. Finish getting ready."

Jonathan nodded and walked back into their bathroom, a tiny, white-walled affair that stood adjacent to the couple's equally miniscule bedroom. Hermione sat still on the edge of the bed for a few peaceful moments, listening to her husband perform his morning ablutions. She closed her eyes, letting the sounds of running water and Jon's pattering feet fall over her like a comforting blanket.

Despite her assurances to Jon, the past night's dream had been one of Hermione's worst. She had dreamt of the Manor for the first time in nearly a year, a dream that always left her numb with fear and weak with the memory of her own torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange.

Hermione gritted her teeth as images from the dream flashed through her mind—a mind that was still too dazed from sleep to put up its usual mental guards.

_Hooded black eyes glinting down at her, lit from within by the fires of madness. White hot pain as the blade of a knife slices through her delicate skin, carving hatred into her too-thin arm. The wild, feral laughter of the damned, repeated a hundred times over as a nightmarish echo, bouncing off the walls of the cavernous room. The terrified mutterings of the voice inside her head, saying over and over, Harry where are you? _

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Hermione opened her eyes abruptly and was met with the worried gaze of her husband, who was standing in front of her once more.

"I said I'm fine, Jon," she said, rising to her feet and stepping around Jonathan to head towards the bathroom. A second later she felt a warm, callused hand on her arm.

"Yes?" Hermione said, turning to face her husband.

"I'm sorry," Jon said, and Hermione was relieved to see that some of the worry had faded from his eyes. "You just looked like you were in pain, that's all."

"It's nothing," Hermione repeated.

"I know, I know," Jon said, smiling slightly. "I know that you're strong and independent and that you like to handle things on your own. But—if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm always here."

"Of course you are," Hermione said, leaning forward to give Jon a light peck on the cheek. "You're my otter, after all."

Jon grinned, then leaned down to give her a long, lingering kiss, massaging her lips gently with his own.

"Jon, it's already seven o'clock," Hermione said, glancing over at the alarm clock when the kiss was broken. "You're going to be late."

"Oh Jesus," he said, following her gaze and resting his own eyes on the glowing red numbers. "I thought it was still a quarter till."

"Apparently not."

"Yes, I've realized that, thanks," Jon said, rummaging in his pocket for his car keys. Hermione followed him out of the bedroom and through the living room, stopping at the door leading out of their flat.

"Good bye, dear," Jonathan said, leaning down to graze her forehead with his lips. "I hope your classes go well."

"Yours too," Hermione said, blowing him a kiss as he opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. "I'll see you when I get home."

Once Jonathan had gone, Hermione headed back into the bedroom to get ready for the day. She sat down at the little wooden dresser that Jonathan's mother had given her as a twenty-seventh birthday present and began to brush her hair, gazing tiredly at her reflection in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes looked back at her through the glass, and Hermione thought that she could see the ghost of fear still haunting their brown depths. Her face was unnaturally pale and her mouth was compressed into a thin line. Her normally uncontrollable hair looked lifeless today; Hermione could see her exhaustion reflected in the limp brown curls. Her students had been teasing her all week about her tired appearance, saying that she must have a new love-interest keeping her awake at night. Recalling their jests, a sudden image flashed through Hermione's mind.

_Tonks, sitting at Molly Weasley's kitchen table in the middle of the night, her normally vibrant hair reduced to a dull mousey brown. She is crying; she doesn't know that Hermione is in the room watching her, doesn't know that Hermione has long guessed the reason behind her tears. Suddenly Tonks looks up, and—_

Hermione, now fully awake, threw up her mental guards, banishing the unwanted memory from her mind. A second later nothing was left of the image but a few wisps of silver smoke.

Hermione took a deep breath, set down her brush, and picked a small compact up off of the dusty surface of the dresser. It was nearly seven thirty: the first golden rays of a newborn sun were streaming in through the bedroom windows, and the drunken shouts of the New York city night had long since given way to the lively sounds of morning traffic. A new day had undeniably begun; for Hermione, this meant a return to the simple world of waking reality. She refused to let the shadows of her past enter this world; those shadows belonged to the nighttime realm of dreams, and she was determined that they should stay there.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO**

"Professor, what exactly does Owen mean by the phrase 'undying dead'?"

Hermione focused her gaze on the speaker, a timid-looking girl in the front row whose bright red hair Hermione had always found distracting. Today, like every other class day, the brilliant locks glimmered in the morning sun, the bright light of which streamed in mercilessly through the huge windows of the lecture hall.

"Would anyone like to answer Ms. Harrison's question?" Hermione said, surveying the hundred and twenty-odd students scattered throughout the massive room. Most of these young men and women seemed to be intently occupied with the screens of their laptop computers (not for the first time, Hermione silently cursed the inventors of Facebook), so Hermione was not surprised when only one hand shot into the air.

"Ms. Porter?" Hermione said, addressing the owner of the lone, eagerly wavering hand.

"The poet is referring to the soldiers who have already died in the war," the girl said. "The soldiers are 'undying' because, according to the rulers who are speaking, they will always live on in the memories of those for whom they sacrificed their lives."

"Very good," Hermione said, gracing the girl with a rare smile. "Now, who would like to take a guess as to why Owen included this phrase in his poem? Does he give the rulers any credibility, or do you think that the words are intended to be ironic?"

"I'm gonna go with the second option," a deep voice called from the back of the room. "Poets and artists never portray authority figures in a good light. Free spirits and all, you know, down with the establishment and all that nonsense."

A ripple of laughter spread throughout the lecture hall. Hermione looked up, searching for the pebble that had managed to cause such a ripple in an otherwise static pond. She grinned when her eyes found Jon; her husband had managed to sneak into her lecture unnoticed, and was now sitting in one of the theater-style seats among the students.

"Thank you, Mr. King," Hermione said, not missing a beat. "Now, could you please tell the class your thoughts on the poem as a whole? Perhaps you could start with your assessment of the title."

"Er—what poem is this, again?" Jon said, pretending to look abashed. The class laughed again, sufficiently distracted from their wall posts and status updates by the lighthearted interruption. Many of them knew Jon; he was a popular professor (as much for his youth and good-looks as for his teaching style, Hermione thought wryly) and he had made a habit of popping up unexpectedly in his wife's classes.

"'Smile, Smile, Smile,' by Wilfred Owen," Hermione said. "And I say that not so much for Jon's benefit as fort the benefit of the class, many of whom seem to be more interested in their online conversations than they are this text. I'm afraid that many of you, like my dear husband, might not be quite up-to-date on what poem we're studying."

Many of the students smiled embarrassedly, and Hermione was rewarded with the sight of a hundred laptops being folded shut across the lecture hall.

"Now, back to Owen," Hermione said, trying not to look at Jon. "Does anyone want to answer my earlier question?"

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO**

"Jon, you really need to stop doing that," Hermione said. The lecture hall was empty now, save for herself and her husband. Jon was standing next to her at the podium, waiting as she gathered her notes and folded them neatly into her cracked leather briefcase.

"Oh, you know you love it when I interrupt your classes," Jon said, grinning.

"How I feel about it isn't the issue," Hermione replied as she attempted to stuff a thick anthology of British poetry into her already overstuffed case. "It's rather inappropriate, don't you think?"

"Professors are supposed to be inappropriate and eccentric," Jon said, waving his hand dismissively. "Anyway, there's something in particular that I need to talk to you about."

"And that is?" Hermione asked, still battling with the heavy book.

"England," Jon said.

Hermione paused for a brief second, then resumed her organizing. She didn't look up at her husband, afraid of what she might read in his expression. Fear had settled in her stomach like a coiled serpent; she could practically feel its sharp scales cutting into her insides.

"I—I was asked to teach there," Jon said. "At the London School of Economics."

Hermione's hand slipped and the anthology fell from her grasp. She ignored the book as it landed heavily on the floor, the crisp white pages wrinkling and the spine snapping with a loud _crack_.

"When?" She said, her voice surprisingly even.

"Next year," Jon replied. "I—I know that you've said you don't want to go back, after what happened to your parents and all, but—but this is a huge opportunity for me. And…I'd really like us to go."

Hermione stared at him. For some inexplicable reason Jon seemed to take her silence as a good thing, and he began to speak louder and faster, growing visibly more excited as he went on.

"It's a great opportunity for you too, 'Mione," he said. "Think of all the research you could do. I've already asked Sherry about it, and she said you could probably apply for a grant to do research for a semester, or even for the whole year—so it won't be like lost time for you. And—"

"Why are you telling me this now?" Hermione said. Jon blinked.

"Well, I—I just got it all cleared with my department this morning. So it's a definite go if…if you're willing."

Hermione let her eyelids flutter closed. England. Jon wanted to move to _England_. After everything she had done to escape her native country—a place forever cursed for her, haunted as it was by the memories of war and replete with the risk of being recognized by some member of the magical community—Jon was asking her to return.

"No," Hermione said, opening her eyes. "No, Jon. That is something that I will not do."

**A/N: The title of this chapter comes from the poem "Smile, Smile, Smile" by Wilfred Owen. Every chapter of this story will bear the title of a post-WWI British poem. **

**A/N 2: Please review. It really helps encourage me to continue writing. **


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